


Feather Dusters

by derangedfangirl



Category: Real Genius (1985)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:30:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derangedfangirl/pseuds/derangedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, at least he hadn't gotten a tattoo.  Thank god for small miracles.  Crack!Fic.  Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feather Dusters

Mitch’s brain was fuzzy.

Mitch’s vision was blurred and spinning like a top on acid.  Mitch had terrible cotton-mouth, his pillow was slick with drool, it felt like his teeth were wearing a pair of Chris’s furry slippers, and he was relatively convinced that a gnome with an ice-pick was working furiously behind his eyeballs to drive him insane.

A ray of light imbued with ungodly intensity struck his eyelids, which provided little protection from what some people referred to as the sun, but Mitch preferred (at that moment) to think of as a torturous mass of hydrogen and helium which existed purely to spite him.

He whimpered as the gnome discarded the ice-pick for a super-sonic chainsaw.  Squirming pathetically, he scrunched up his face and curled his legs up to his chest in a fruitless attempt to escape.  So focused was he on the fact that someone seemed to be cleaving his head open with a large, dull machete, that the weak moan of pain from somewhere behind him didn’t register.

Mitch has always been a quick boy, though- it couldn’t escape his notice that when he rolled over, flinging out an arm to lay spread eagled on his stomach, that the erstwhile appendage struck a distinctly solid, non pillow-like shape.  He debated vaguely on whether or not he would move or open his leaden eyelids to see who the hell was lying beside him on the floor, but before he could decide, a rather more important observation slid into his brain.

His pillow was moving rhythmically, and a button was stuck to his face.  There was also a mysterious weight on his right thigh, likely accounting for the annoying tingling in his foot, and a hand seemed to be flung across his back.

It wasn't so much that this was an unusual event in and of itself, as Chris a) sleepwalks, b) tends to sleep like a martian octopus with more limbs to wrap around things than a bipedal being should ever be allowed, and, c) Chris tended to enjoy the look of horror on his face whenever he woke up to the blond clinging to his ankle and a toe in his ear.

But Mitch’s brain was being thoroughly unhelpful in piecing together what was happening. In fact, it seemed to be flat out refusing to remember the past 12 hours or so, and that made him understandably... nervous.

Cautious of more than just the atrocious brilliance of the light permeating the curtains, he cracked open one eye.  A golden ball of fluff filled his vision, and he relaxed minutely.

 _‘Just Chris, go back to sleep.’_   His brain hissed.  He closed his eye gratefully.

 _‘Wait- scratch that..’_

Sleep crusted eyelids popped back open, a sudden, horrifying realization beginning to dawn.  It _was_ 'just Chris', that part was true, but Chris was wearing even _fewer_ clothes than usual, which meant that he’d been pulling his cephalopod routine butt naked.  

Mitch sat up (which sent his poor, abused head into a spin that made him wonder if he was more likely to vomit or pass out), and began to extricate himself with some difficulty from Knight’s grabby hands, ignoring the mewling little sound of protest and string of unintelligible muttering that would’ve been hilariously endearing in another situation.  

Mitch scrabbled away backwards like a crab, and promptly came into contact with another body, this one smaller and slighter than Chris's, and, judging by the sensation of warm skin pressed against his back, in a similar state of undress.

“I drank what?” he muttered, forcing his head to turn so he could tell just who was behind him.

Mitch’s jaw dropped open, hands clapping over his eyes with a quickness, and this time his exclamation was considerably higher pitched.  It died in his throat.  He sounded like a distressed rodent.

It was certain.  He'd gone completely insane under the stress of exams.  He rubbed his eyes, hard, sure that this would cause hallucination would vanish and order would return to his world.  He cautiously peeked between his fingers.  

Nope.  Still there.  He squeezed his eyes shut before they could drift down past the pale chest of another man who was -apparently- as nude as the day he was born.

Blindly, he scuttled backwards until his back hit a wall and rubbed furiously at his eyes. _'Dreaming.  I'm dreaming, because David Bowie absolutely is NOT naked in our dorm room, passed out on the floor.'_

From the direction of the tangled mass of sleeping people before him, there was a distinctly feminine mewl of what he could sympathetically identify as, “Die sun, die!”

His eyes popped back open of their own accord, and just there, a shock of dark hair- tangled up with the improbably placed rock star, was a truly, uncharacteristically, _still_ Jordan, an empty glass dangling from her slack hand which was draped conveniently across Bowie’s hips.

Mitch emitted a horrified giggle, and ran a distracted hand through already mussed hair.  It looked as though he'd stuck his finger in an electrical socket.  It still couldn’t hold a candle to Chris’s.

Jordan’s eyes cracked open, and she met his gaze blearily.

“Hi, Mitch…” she muttered thickly, her sleep crusted eyes drifting shut again… Mitch counted in his head.   He got to three before Jordan sat up as though she'd been spring loaded, and gaped at him.  He remained frozen in shock.  A little voice in his head hopefully speculated that Jordan might be able to help him piece together exactly what was going on.

“Mitch?” she squeaked, her eyes widening as they drifted south of his face-

Mitch looked down at himself in consternation.  Mitch realized that he _wasn't_ the only one clothed in a room of naked people.  He covered himself with his hands, achieved a truly impressive vocal pitch, and tried to spontaneously combust.

“Why are you naked?” she asked, doing her best to match the hue of a ripe tomato, as he simultaneously blurted “Why are we all naked, and what’s he doing here?”

“What… All…?” Jordan’s voice rose an octave, and he winced at the way it probed his brain.  For once, words were not flowing out of her in a single, unbroken stream. 

She finally surveyed the room, hair a wild mass about her head.

The expression on her face when she discovered just whose legs she was tangled up with would have been comical in any other situation, Mitch mused as he cowered against the wall.

“David Bowie?” she hissed, panicked “David-freaking- _Bowie_?  Did I… Mitch, did I _mate_ with him?!”

Mitch shook his head, mute, shrugging helplessly in the universal combination for 'I have no earthly idea what the hell is going on; I was really hoping you did.'

Jordan’s mouth worked soundlessly as she took in the vaguely disturbing sight of nude Pac-Tech students scattered randomly about the immediate vicinity.  Kent was not there.  It was little consolation.  She dropped the empty glass- it shattered with a very painful crash.  

In the ruckus- nay, pandemonium, that followed, which involved more than one fistfight- a situation that would have been a much more impressive display of masculinity, Mitch thought, if both participants had bothered to don clothing first- a befuddled Jordan prodding a groggy rockstar awake and interrogating him, Ick's inarticulate attempt to explain, Mitch collapsed on his bed, staring around blankly.  Only Chris seemed relatively unabashed.  

 

As per usual.

 

Chris simply stood up, made his way to the kitchen, -dodging random flying appendages- and made a mechanical grab for the liquid nitrogen in the freezer.

As he tipped his cup of coffee toward his lips, rolling it around in his mouth, barely tasting the caffeinated goodness he would have normally reveled in, he decided that he would do well to never play “Truth or Dare” with Mitch and Jordan again.  _‘No,’_ he revised mentally, _‘too much fun to be had there.  No truth or dare with Ick’s concoctions involved.'_

Mitch, wrapped securely in a t-shirt that may have been Chris’s and a pair of pajama pants, silently approached, grabbed a box off the counter, and poured himself a bowl of Lucky Charms.  Chris stifled a smile and amended his promise-

 _'Unless of course, I get to videotape it and restrain Mitch from doing anything too permanently scarring.'_

Well,  at least he hadn't gotten a tattoo.  Thank God for small miracles.  Wait.  Tattoos?  Chris looked at Mitch for a long moment, then reached over and yanked his t-shirt up, spinning the kid around to check for anything that might be... out of order.  Mitch didn’t even complain, just stared at the colorful box unseeing, crunching at his cereal without much enthusiasm.  Chris clapped a hand on his shoulder in a masculine display of solidarity, although maybe it was useless, as Chris was still sort of naked.

The leprechaun on the cereal box seemed to wink at him, and Mitch just blinked at it, one eyebrow lifting.

Honestly, _David Bowie_ was in their dorm room- nothing could possibly shock him at this point.  Chris shuffled back into the dorm room, Mitch trailing at his heels, hopped over a pile of clothes that may have been a person, and leaned against the wall.

“I don't suppose any of you recall what happened...?”  he called, surveying the scene with one eyebrow quirked imperiously.  Variations of "No!" were shouted back, and Mitch just rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. 

Out of the blue, Chris looked over at him. "Wait a minute..." he said, concentrating harder than Mitch had ever witnessed the man concentrate on anything in his life.   Mitch waited, holding his breath.

"Feather duster." Chris muttered, looking pained or maybe triumphant, it was difficult for Mitch to tell sometimes-

"What? Feather..?" he asked uncomprehendingly. "What about a feather duster?"

Chris gave him a vaguely offended look.  “If you don’t know, Mitch, I’m not going to tell you.”

A low chuckle came from the direction of Mitch’s bed- he twisted to face an oddly unsurprised but terribly amused Ziggy Stardust sprawled on his bed like he owned it.  Mitch cocked his head.  Bowie smirked slightly at the befuddled expression on the younger man’s face, and shrugged.  “Shit’s old hat, kid.”

A mass of half masticated cereal escaped Mitch's slack lips.

David Bowie donned his jeans casually and lit a cigarette.

  
********

An alarm went off, somewhere, annoying and  shrill and unmindful of his headache.  Reaching out to silence it, unable to stifle the incredible relief that bubbled up at the sight of a blessedly empty dorm room, Mitch muttered, “I’m never eating cold pizza before bed again.”

“What was that, snookums?”  Chris put a soft hand on his shoulder, cooing, and nestled his face between Mitch’s shoulder blades, and Mitch’s overtaxed brain simply… shut… down.  

“What’s wrong with Mitch?” (Fully clothed) Lazlo asked, concerned.

Chris, (mostly clothed) laughed.  “I have no idea.” He paused, prodding Mitch’s cheek with his index finger, “I called him snookums, and I figured he’d just blush and leap out of reach like normal, not-” he poked Mitch’s cheek again,  “-pass out.  And what was the "feather dusters" thing?”

Lazlo shrugged.

Chris stared at Mitch for a few seconds.  “Y’know what I think?  I think Mitch needs to unwind.  He’s been working too hard.  Where’s Ick?  I’m thinking a Spring Carnival.”


End file.
